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It unfolded on a morning appearing entirely routine. I journeyed accompanied by my family to welcome a new puppy. The world appeared predictable – before it all shifted.

Glancing at my screen, I noticed news from the border. I called my mother, expecting her cheerful voice telling me she was safe. Silence. My father didn't respond either. Next, my sibling picked up – his speech already told me the devastating news even as he spoke.

The Developing Tragedy

I've witnessed countless individuals in media reports whose lives were torn apart. Their gaze revealing they couldn't comprehend what they'd lost. Then it became our turn. The deluge of violence were overwhelming, amid the destruction remained chaotic.

My child watched me across the seat. I shifted to reach out in private. When we got to our destination, I saw the terrible killing of a woman from my past – a senior citizen – broadcast live by the attackers who took over her house.

I recall believing: "None of our family would make it."

At some point, I witnessed recordings showing fire bursting through our house. Even then, later on, I couldn't believe the home had burned – until my brothers sent me photographs and evidence.

The Fallout

Upon arriving at the station, I called the kennel owner. "Hostilities has started," I said. "My family are likely gone. Our kibbutz fell to by terrorists."

The return trip was spent trying to contact loved ones while simultaneously guarding my young one from the awful footage that were emerging through networks.

The scenes from that day were beyond anything we could imagine. A 12-year-old neighbor taken by several attackers. Someone who taught me taken in the direction of the border using transportation.

Individuals circulated social media clips appearing unbelievable. An 86-year-old friend similarly captured across the border. A woman I knew accompanied by her children – children I had played with – seized by militants, the terror apparent in her expression paralyzing.

The Painful Period

It seemed interminable for assistance to reach our community. Then started the painful anticipation for news. As time passed, one photograph appeared depicting escapees. My mother and father weren't there.

During the following period, as community members helped forensic teams locate the missing, we searched the internet for evidence of our loved ones. We encountered torture and mutilation. We didn't discover visual evidence about Dad – no clue concerning his ordeal.

The Unfolding Truth

Gradually, the reality emerged more fully. My aged family – along with dozens more – were taken hostage from our kibbutz. My parent was in his eighties, Mom was 85. During the violence, 25 percent of the residents lost their lives or freedom.

Over two weeks afterward, my mother was released from confinement. As she left, she glanced behind and grasped the hand of the militant. "Peace," she uttered. That image – an elemental act of humanity during unimaginable horror – was broadcast everywhere.

More than sixteen months later, my father's remains were recovered. He was murdered just two miles from our home.

The Ongoing Pain

These tragedies and their documentation still terrorize me. All subsequent developments – our desperate campaign to save hostages, Dad's terrible fate, the persistent violence, the tragedy in the territory – has compounded the initial trauma.

My mother and father were lifelong advocates for peace. Mom continues, similar to most of my family. We recognize that hate and revenge won't provide any comfort from this tragedy.

I compose these words through tears. Over the months, sharing the experience becomes more difficult, instead of improving. The kids of my friends continue imprisoned along with the pressure of the aftermath remains crushing.

The Internal Conflict

To myself, I describe dwelling on these events "swimming in the trauma". We typically sharing our story to advocate for the captives, despite sorrow seems unaffordable we cannot afford – now, our campaign continues.

No part of this account serves as support for conflict. I have consistently opposed hostilities since it started. The population of Gaza experienced pain beyond imagination.

I'm appalled by government decisions, yet emphasizing that the attackers are not benign resistance fighters. Having seen their atrocities on October 7th. They failed the population – causing suffering for everyone through their violent beliefs.

The Personal Isolation

Discussing my experience with those who defend the attackers' actions feels like failing the deceased. My community here confronts rising hostility, meanwhile our kibbutz has fought against its government for two years while experiencing betrayal multiple times.

Across the fields, the ruin of the territory can be seen and emotional. It appalls me. Simultaneously, the complete justification that many appear to offer to the organizations creates discouragement.